Missing All My Mistakes
by darkangelazure
Summary: am was going to miss his eyes. The lush evergreen that reminded him of running through woods in forgotten states, the complete glow like sweet shots of Green Chartreuse on sticky New Orleans nights and laying in fields for unknown hours breathing in the a


Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters featured in this fic, it's just a bit of fun, don't sue me!  
Title: Missing All My Mistakes  
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean  
Rating(s):NC-17  
Spoiler(s): AHBL Part 2.  
Warning(s): Blood, Alcohol, Angst, Consensual Incest, Drugs and Language.  
Summary: Sam was going to miss his eyes. The lush evergreen that reminded him of running through woods in forgotten states, the complete glow like sweet shots of Green Chartreuse on sticky New Orleans nights and laying in fields for unknown hours breathing in the almost freedom. If Sam got close enough, he could see the flecks of gold and burnt umber, like chipped gold leaf off old chandeliers and burning caskets. (Based before Mystery Spot)  
A/N: I started writing this before the final episode of season 3.Thank you  
**popeiathehippo** you are the best!

000

This wasn't his happy ever after he'd dreamed about. The light daydreams and witching hour philosophies. He'd even planned his whole life to a perfect fantasy T. Laid out on dusty porches and spread against the lush green grasses of abandoned fields.

Laid in the motel bed, the ghostly cheapness of neon vacancy light glowing through the not so closed peach curtains.

Sam knew he was going to miss his smile and obscene gestures to a waitress with huge tits. His taste in foot stompers and almost sexual pleasure he got from magic fingers.

He was laid in the slight dark of another nameless motel room doing what Dean called "emo", but his brooding gave him stock of how far his life had diverted from the path he'd wanted all those years ago, as a starry eyed teenager, with dreams further then the stars from the reality he'd been brought into.

But as Sam curled his hand around the smooth wood of his knife under his head, the scratch of the almost clean pillows and the scent of motel soap and them filling his head, he knew he was going to miss Dean's smell, halfway between oily love for the car and adrenaline sweat of the hunt.

The scent of his battered leather jacket and the spice under it all, the natural scent of him as he would lay on the motel beds, exhausted and vulnerable just for Sam to have.

And God he could feel it, the lump rising in his throat and the almighty ache that made him want to curl in on himself with every tired heartbeat.

Sam was going to miss his eyes. The lush evergreen that reminded him of running through woods in forgotten states, the complete glow like sweet shots of

Green Chartreuse on sticky New Orleans nights and laying in fields for unknown hours breathing in the almost freedom.

If Sam got close enough, he could see the flecks of gold and burnt umber, like chipped gold leaf off old chandeliers and burning caskets.

He was going to miss his sound. Halfway between the whiskey sour of their father's and all the comfort he supposed he should remember of their mother's.

He was going to miss his laugh, the quick bark and the strung out cackle when he found something hilarious. But he was going to miss it for the things he never said, the in-between moments of shared silence where he knew Dean would say it all if he could, he was going to miss the message beneath the octave and just above the meaning.

Sam was a little shocked with himself as he sat up in the too-small bed, his eyes sore looking through the electric gloom of the room. It didn't take long to adjust to the little amount of light to see Dean.

And it hit him again, the heartache and the sickness bubbling in the pit of his stomach, the agonizing want making every breath stained with an injustice he felt towards their whole life.

He was going to miss the way Dean looked. He'd never been around anyone else who looked more like a man should than Dean. He was built and muscular in all the right places, the 50's romance of his jaw line and all the perfect scars that decorated his body. The freckles speckled and dotted over his strong shoulders and the smooth bridge of his nose Sam could see when he got close enough.

Sam had only tasted Dean twice in his whole life, and he was damn sure that he was going to miss that as much as all the rest.

The first time, 17 and strung out on his first shots of tequila and a joint Dean shouldn't have given him, higher than cloud nine and loose-limbed in the backseat of the Impala, skin tingling, every scrape of his hoodie and the difference between the warmth of jeans and cool air over his exposed knees.

The wispy wanderings of his mind compared to the solid creak of the leather beneath him made him laugh so hard tears fell, the almost too-much sensation of Dean's hands carding through his hair, the coolness of his ring scraping against his scalp left him purring and chasing after the feeling as he opened his eyes against the circuit board lights of the city below.

"Oh man." He remembered sighing against the swirling heaviness of the air around them, the constant heat of Dean sliding up next to him, trying to grip onto anything solid as he felt the overwhelming scratch of stubble against the curve of his ear, closing his eyes against the swell of his heart and Dean's smile in his hair.

He could hear Dean's rumble of a chuckle and the harsh scratch of him taking in the scent of Sam's hair. Sam felt every inch of skin sing so loud with a longing as Dean's fingers danced beautifully over the hollow of his throat and his dick twitching against the too-abrasive texture of his jeans.

The electric clack of planting his hands wide and star shaped against the almost forever expanse of Dean's built chest, nipples that could cut glass and the heat. God, the heat rolling straight into the palms of his hands and too-much, too-deep sex of his low chuckle into Sam's temple making him almost hyperventilate with the overload.

It was all solid and simple. Just the way Dean was, his hands rough and strong in his hair and zinging sparks down Sam's spine as the wetness of muscle crept against his lips. Sam had opened his mouth with a audible sigh and tasted the whole moment in one buzzing second as Dean slid into him.

It still haunted Sam that Dean had made everything taste just the little bit sweeter as his skin crawled with a over accentuated arousal, making his heart pound so hard he had thought with a small smile at the time that it would swallow them both with its immensity.

But Dean had made the tobacco burn of the tequila more exciting and the acrid heat of his sore throat a soothing, heady warmth before he'd broken away.

The Second. It was desperate, sloppy, and even just as heart encasing as the first. It was what they'd both needed more then they had said, leaving Bobby's and Sam couldn't stop his fingers reaching around himself and brushing the silver line across his spine. It ached, and so did his heart. Dean had pushed Black Sabbath - Iron Man into the tape deck and was belting out the lyrics like a cat drowning in porridge would have sounded, so low and abrasive that it had made Sam smile.

It was a passive-disturbance, like being shoved a little too hard when you weren't looking when Dean pulled the Impala over onto a grassy verge. He'd stopped singing and even smiling in one moment and his calloused fingers were squeezing and flexing against the steering wheel.

Sam had opened his mouth to ask "What's up?" but was dragged into Dean, teeth clacking and the taste of blood already spilling against the tangle of their tongues, the gear stick digging with a constant ache into his waist as Dean threaded his hands into Sam's hair, positioning him to take his mouth.

Sam's hands shot out to steady himself against the headrest and stirring wheel, eyes closed against the taste of Dean, just beneath the canned mac 'n' cheese they'd had at Bobby's and the hair of the dog beer they'd both indulged in, but it was there, sour and sweet with love and desperation. Dry lips, but so sweet inside that Sam could have drowned in it.

Dean, all in the same instant, had shoved him back into his seat, hands back on the steering wheel and pulling them back into the road. But nothing was said as Sam flipped the tape, they just knew there wasn't anything to say. Just left the words hanging like they always had, comfortable in the static silence and Sam could hear it all loud and clear.

_Needed to know you were there._

_Wanted to feel you here._

_Glad you're back. Bitch._

And that had been enough.

When Sam's feet planted themselves against the thinned carpet of the motel room, feeling the cool air dance against the exposed flesh of his thighs and shoulders, he stared at the silhouette of Dean sleeping.

He was going to miss it all, the moments they had together. He was going to miss his almost allergic reaction to vegetables that weren't fried and his warmth.

Sam was going to miss his valor and bravery, his silent stoicism to a situation. The sparse but meaningful hugs they hardly shared. The small things.

The way he chewed on a pen and the glint in his eyes when a bar played AC/DC and his love for pie.

The small fact he knew Dean loved him just that little bit more than the Impala.

The fact Dean loved his car and referred to it as _his girl_. Like all the women in his life couldn't match up to her sleek black paint job and the times they spent stuck on the edge of a butt-fuck nowhere road as he replaced a tire.

The way he snored more when he was tanked and his still complete obedience to their dad, even if he was just ashes. The small smile he got when he thought Sam wasn't looking. The love he had for their job and how at one time he'd let

Sam go to make his own mistakes and still saved him.

The fact that every time Sam cried or bled in the dingy motel rooms, Dean was there just at his back, the knowing presence that knew all his flaws and still wanted to be near him.

He was going to miss all the mistakes Dean made and the guilt he held for them, every scar from barf ights and hand-to-hand hunting jobs gone bad. Sam was going to miss the smell of his blood, the sight of it, the ripple of muscle when they trained. The huff and sigh of boredom when they didn't go to a bar.

The scent of his skin laced with cheap perfume and the too-red lipsticks that stuck to his freckled flesh. The way he tried to get Sam laid, just because _he's an awesome brother._

The fact that at one time they had allowed themselves to be more and they could have that if either chose to want it. The fact that he gave Sam his choices and let him be him.

He was going to miss having Dean's anger and his control. Dean having his back and possessing the reasonability of looking after Dean himself, even if Dean wouldn't admit it.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed breathing in all his memories of them dozing in the Impala and Dean giving him the last bowl full of Lucky Charms.

He was going to miss Dean's heart, his warrior valor and all the love he still held even after everything they'd seen.

He was going to miss the shitty arguments and the times he would catch Dean staring at himself in the mirror, with a faraway bitterness he reserved for his own reflection.

He was going to miss the longing he had every time Dean would smile his way and the way he wanted onions with everything no matter how much it made Sam's stomach turn.

He was going to miss his love, Dean's all-consuming love and the fact that he felt the same way.

And as Sam let himself cry silently in the dingy darkness, he was going to miss a part of himself, because he knew he'd sacrifice it for Dean.

He wasn't going to have to miss Dean.

The End


End file.
